I didn't receive any letter from you yesterday, my dear Love. I pray and implore you, write to me every day as long as you are away; even if the gallant visitors take much of your time, if you really love me you will find half or a quarter of an hour for your poor Richard, who now knows this only refreshment and comfort in his terrible sufferings. Oh, don't withdraw this comfort from me; for your letters are my only hope, they must bring me at last an answer to my most urgent entreaties and demands. It cannot and will not be otherwise; I would sooner become accustomed to the thought of an early death, than to that of a separation from you. But I will play this chord no more today. What is there left to say after my previous letters, to the girl whose heart has not been touched by these entreaties, by these presentations, these offers? This girl would no longer be touched in her heart—only by a sharp knife. So now I will say no more—I will talk only about myself.
How do I live! Great God, could there be a more mournful, miserable life! I am alone, alone, in this town, deserted as in death; there is no one, nothing, to interest me; everything is cold and unsympathetic. It was on your account that I came here and took this position; you were my reason for being here; and only because of you did these houses, these streets have an interest for me. It was with you in mind that I performed my duties, for I knew you were in the box above when I was conducting at my desk, I knew that this pleased you, and it did my vanity good. Now—everything has vanished! With what monstrous indifference I go to my place on the stage from where I see your dear face no longer; with what contempt I look upon my routine, and—alas—with what feelings I enter your house. I never open the door at the right, where there would be no dear "Come in" to answer my knock. I turn to the room at the left, which I never liked; I see your sister in your dressing gown, and facing me Otterstedt's picture. I drink alone from the glass which was ours together. Your mother pours my coffee into your cup, so that I may not forget you. O heavens! And such stupid, indifferent people like Schreiber, who, as if taunting me, is becoming bolder and bolder with Amalie. I have to look on while they are kissing each other—Minna, Minna, must you make me bear this misery for so long? It is shameful! You know my sensitiveness, you often saw my tears, kissed them away from my eyes. Do I no longer move you?
I am working hard to conquer my pain; as early as seven in the morning I sit down to write to you; then I work continuously until one o'clock at my opera, which now is reviving in me in its full power, and is closely connected with the possession of you. Then I go to eat, then a quick walk to my sister's, from there back home; after that I work again until seven o'clock, then I drop in to see your family, which is mine, and home again, to my sad, lonely bed. But how long can this go on? I shall break down in the end. I get dull, become diffident, forget how to love and hate, and so there is nothing left of me. This is my lot, a shameful lot which certainly I was never meant for. Never let yourself imagine that time will soothe and lessen that pain. Time affects me in a quite different way—instead of gradually diminishing my love for you as a habit and dulling it, your absence has only made it stronger and more durable, and the same would happen with my agony of separation. I can already feel how it begins to gnaw at my heart.
But you won't let me perish. You shall return to me, we are going to possess each other once more, this time never to separate again! It cannot, it must not be otherwise! I go on living only in this hope. God greet you, my angel!
Your
Richard
Source: Letters of Richard Wagner: The Burrell Collection, ed. John N. Burk (Macmillan, 1950), No. 9